


The Point of the Spear

by DizzyDrea



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Immortality, Serious Injuries, Trope Bingo Round 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-19 16:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13708215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: When Q is critically injured on a mission, he must make a choice, the same choice James Bond once faced. Immortality or death? It's not really a choice, after all.





	The Point of the Spear

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel, of a sort, to my story [The Eternal Warrior](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6563581). If you've not read that story, just know that James Bond is an Eternal Warrior, a Paladin of King Charlemagne, given eternal life to serve the King. This was inspired directly by that other story, but it was a tough nut to crack. See the end notes for my inspiration for the King.
> 
> For the _Immortality/Reincarnation_ square on my Trope Bingo card.
> 
> Disclaimer: James Bond at all its particulars is the property of Ian Flemming, Albert and Barbara Broccoli, MGM, Eon Productions and a lot of other people who aren't me. I'm doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.  
~Madeline Miller, _The Song of Achilles_

~o~

James Bond stands at the door to the massive data center, gun in hand but pointed at the floor, eyes never ceasing their movement down the hall in both directions. This door is the only exit for the data center, and as such he has to preserve access. 

He knows this, but it doesn't help him fight the urge to run into the data center and stand over Q, whether for protection or to hurry him along, not even 007 is sure.

"Q, status report," he says quietly.

An audible sigh crackles over the comms. "The same as the last five times you've asked, 007. I'm nearly there, but this system is proving tricky."

"Remind me again why you had to be onsite for this?" Bond asks. He hadn't liked it when M had told him that Q needed to be in the field for this particular job, but he's been doing this long enough to know when it's pointless to argue. M's face had told him this was one such time.

"Because this particular machine isn't on the network with the rest," Q says, his monotone delivery and the quickness of the response showing more effectively than anything else could that he'd repeated this answer more than once. "And if our source is correct, this computer contains all the account information for this organization around the world. With this data I can freeze accounts, starve field operations and make it impossible for them to even walk across the street for a latte."

"In your pyjamas, I suppose," Bond says.

"Of course," comes Q's prim reply.

Bond chuckles. Despite the level of danger inherent in the mission, he's actually having fun. It's not the first time they've done so, but after his extended vacation with Madeline, it had felt like M had been treading softly with him, giving him easy missions to gauge his fitness for duty. Of course he'd proved he still has it, but what else did M expect? Bond is a 00 agent, after all. One doesn't simply leave that behind one day with no notion of where it's been left.

"Ha!" Q says, rather loudly so that it can be heard over the comms and in an echo around the room. "I'm in. Give me five minutes and I'll have all the data."

"Understood," Bond says quietly. 

If possible, his alertness intensifies. He's actively scanning the hallway now, watching for shadows, listening for the squeak and click of shoes on tile. Everything is deadly quiet, which unnerves Bond. Quiet, in his experience, has never presaged anything good.

Q jogs up just as the hair on the back of Bond's neck starts to stand on end. He presses a thumb drive into Bond's jeans pocket as he unholsters the gun he'd issued himself for the mission. Bond turns and lifts one eyebrow at his companion.

"I've copied the data to my laptop and that thumb drive, just in case," he says quietly. 

"Good thinking," Bond says, nodding his approval. "You ready?"

Q nods once, decisively. Bond will give him credit for this: since that first mission with Madeline, he's made great strides in confidence and competence in the field. Bond doesn't worry about having Q at his back; he's as qualified to back Bond up as Eve Moneypenny is. 

They exit the data center and make their way down the hall towards the entrance they'd used to access the building. It's a side door that opens onto an alley in an older part of Barcelona. They'd left the car up the road a bit and come in on foot, the better to conceal their entry, but now they have to walk and hope that no one discovers that they've been and gone.

They round the final corner, and Bond can see freedom in the form of the door they're headed for when all hell breaks loose. He can hear the report of guns, and feel the bullets whizzing by, but before he can get Q behind him and protected, he hears the cry of pain and the thud of a bullet striking home.

He hears more than sees Q hit the wall and slide down, crumpled in a heap on the floor behind him. Bond wishes he could stop to assess his partner, but he's got bigger problems: the gunmen are currently blocking their only escape.

He leans around the corner, a hail of bullets his reward for the quick look at his situation. There are only two, and they're unprotected, standing in the middle of the corner as if Bond couldn't hit them with his eyes closed.

He's not going to try, but he will drop them where they stand in five, four, three, two, one…

He leans around the corner, firing off two quick shots in succession. The thud of two bodies dropping to the floor is satisfying, but he's got no time to celebrate. He ducks back around the corner to check on Q, only to find the man leaning against the wall, somehow standing but looking pale as a ghost.

"Where are you hit?" he asks, though it's quite obviously the shoulder, by the amount of blood clinging to his jacket.

He tears his own jacket off and balls it up, pushing it under Q's and pressing down to stem the flow of blood. "This is going to hurt," he says, just a minute too late if Q's grunt is anything to go by.

"You needn't bother, 007," Q says in a shaky voice. "I don't think I'm going to be able to walk to the car anyway."

"Nonsense," Bond says. He unbuckles his belt and pulls it through the loops, wrapping it around Q's shoulder over the jacket and fastens it, pulling it tight and earning another grunt from Q. "That'll hold for now, but we've got to get you to a hospital."

"They'll be watching for that," Q says, his hand barely waving about, indicating the blood smeared on the wall. 

"Well, I'm not going to let you bleed out, so you'll just have to cope," Bond says sharply. 

He moves over to Q's uninjured side and hitches his shoulder under Q's arm, taking as much weight as he can. It means he'll have to shoot left-handed, but he's nearly as good with his off hand as his dominant, so he's not concerned.

They push through the door, and if Bond had thought about it, he'd have realized it was maybe a touch too easy, getting out of the building. He stumbles when the bullets start flying again, this time from the rooftops. The alley affords them no cover, so he runs, practically dragging Q with him. 

They're nearly to the mouth of the alley when a man clad all in black appears, gun in hand. Bond raises his, but pauses because there's something familiar about this man, something in the way he carries himself that makes Bond feel safe in a way he hasn't in too long.

Another man appears beside the first, and then a third, and suddenly he knows exactly who he's facing. He nearly slumps with relief as the first man approaches while the other two take to the ladders on the buildings beside them even as shots ring out from another building entirely.

"Well, mon ami," he says, a bright smile gracing his face. "Looks like you've got trouble."

"Nothing new there," Bond says.

"Come," his friend says, "we'll get you to safety, and get your friend some much-needed medical aide."

Q, who is only upright at this point because Bond is holding him up, squeaks weakly as Bond lifts him into a bridal carry. He's nearly limp in Bond's arms, which worries him, but he's got not time to spare it a thought.

"Who've you got besides Samson and Girard?" Bond asks as they approach a large SUV. 

"Ivoire is manning the sniper rifle as we speak," his friend says. 

He opens the back door and helps Bond lay Q out on the back seat. Without a word, Bond climbs in beside him. He doesn't notice the man behind the wheel until he's settled Q's head on his lap. 

"I see you still keep questionable company, Oliver," Bond says as his friend gets settled in the passenger seat.

Oliver flashes a smile in the rear-view mirror as he reaches across and pats the big, blond man behind the wheel on the shoulder. "Sig is still trying to corrupt me with his Viking ways, but I've managed to stay true."

"I'll get you one of these days," Sig says.

Before Bond can even process the reply, Sig has stomped on the accelerator and they're flying through the streets, headed out of town.

"Where are we going?" Bond asks, giving a worried glance at his now-unconscious partner.

"We've a villa nearby," Oliver says. "In the condition your friend is in, there may be only one way to help him."

"He's here?" Bond asks, surprised.

"Indeed," Sig says as they barrel around a corner at speed, tossing the occupants against the doors. "He has been watching you and your friend for some time."

"Then he intends to offer the Ritual," Bond says. It's not a question, because even he realizes that it may be the only thing to save Q's life. "He's not even conscious. Consent—"

"Is not an issue," Oliver says. "You know the Great King would never willingly override a person's will, but in this case, needs must. Your friend has expressed interest in meeting Him. I can only assume he means to go through with the Ritual if he does. He's done enough research to know what meeting the King entails."

"Yes, we've talked about it," Bond says. 

True to his word, after Bond had explained who and what he is, Q had had questions. Bond had patiently answered what he could, which was a lot, but Q had also done research. He'd found text after text and story after story, some of it utter bullshite, but some of it as close to the truth as mere mortals could get without their heads exploding from the impossibility of it all.

"Then He will offer His blood," Oliver says, breaking into Bond's thoughts. "And if your friend survives, he will be one of us."

Bond wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he knew he didn't want to lose the Quartermaster. 

~o~

They're high in the hills outside Barcelona, winding at precarious speeds around corners best taken at a crawl. Bond doesn't begrudge Sig's rate of speed; if they don't hurry, Q will be dead before they reach the villa. Still, being tossed around the back seat of the SUV isn't what he'd call fun. On a good day.

He looks down at his lap, Q's pale face lolling back and forth as they careen around the corners. It's worrying that he's stopped even groaning when they take a particularly vicious hairpin at speed, but he's still breathing, so Bond will take it.

Finally, they pull into a long driveway. Sig halts the SUV abruptly in front of a sprawling villa, the creamy stucco and wrought iron balcony railings and tile roof making it look like a picture postcard. Sig is out of the vehicle and wrenching the back door open before Bond can even reach for the handle on his side. He pulls Q from the back seat roughly, clearly in a hurry even thought he'd been paying attention to the road and not his passengers.

Bond practically falls out of the SUV and hurries to follow Sig as he carries his precious cargo inside the villa. He lays Q down gently on the large sofa in the front room, then hurries into the kitchen, coming back moments later with a couple of bar towels. He unbuckles Bond's belt and tosses his jacket aside, pressing a towel into the wound to try to stanch the bleeding.

Q lurches up from the sofa, a groan pulled from him at the pressure. It's this that finally spurs Bond into action. He crosses the room, taking over for Sig, who backs off and leaves quietly. Oliver reappears, leaning over the back of the sofa to peer at Q.

"How is he?" Oliver asks.

Bond presses two fingers to Q's neck. "Pulse is weak but there."

Oliver nods, but doesn't say anything more. He circles the sofa and presses a hand to Bond's shoulder, squeezing gently before he, too, leaves the room. Bond pays him no mind. He's practically willing Q to wake up, to sit up, to simply open his eyes and tell him he's not going anywhere. He's not ready to lose the young man just yet. He's not surprised by that thought, but only because he's grown so attached to the Quartermaster. 

A shift in the air makes him look up. What he sees sends a ripple of shock down his spine.

There, standing in the doorway, looking every inch the king he is, stands The Eternal King himself, Charlemagne. He's dressed in a finely-tailored suit of charcoal grey wool, crisp white shirt and a vivid blue tie matching the bright blue of his eyes.

Those eyes—eyes that haunt Bond's dreams, the ones that he can't ever forget—watch him as they do in his memories. 

"My King," Bond says, lowering his head. He makes to kneel beside the sofa, but a strong hand on his shoulder stays his motion.

"There is no need, my old friend," the King says gently.

Bond looks up and is immediately taken in by those eyes. They're all he can see, and at least now he knows why they're all he can remember. He barely even notices the salt-and-pepper hair or the close-cropped beard, or even the strength of the hand on his shoulder. It's as if the rest of the man doesn't exist. Eyes overflowing with love and compassion seem to burrow into him, exposing his deepest secrets, laying him bare before his King. 

The King makes to tug Bond away, but it's as though he's locked into place, putting pressure on Q's wound. His body simply refuses to give up.

"Please, all will be well," the King tries again. "But I must be allowed to speak to your friend."

Bond reluctantly rises, stepping back out of the way as the King takes his place at the edge of the sofa. He lays a hand against Q's cheek, and as if by magic, the younger man opens his eyes. They go wide for a moment, as if he knows exactly who he's looking at.

"Yes, young one," the King says, smiling kindly. "I am he who you seek. We have precious little time, so I will only ask this once. Will you join me? Will you help me make a difference in this world as so many have done before you?"

Q's eyes dart to Bond where he's standing, just behind the King's shoulder, his expression imploring the 00 agent to say something, but Bond knows he can't. This has to be Q's choice, to live or die. Nevermind that the ritual might kill him anyway. But Q knows all that, or at least as much as Bond has been able to tell him. Now, it's Q's choice to make.

As if he were reading Q's mind, the King tugs on Q's chin, bringing his eyes back to his. "He cannot help you. The choice is yours, and one you must make quickly, for there is not much time. You may yet perish, if you prove too weak for the Ritual. But it is still your choice."

Q stares into those eyes for a long moment. Bond knows what he's seeing, what he's looking for. He well remembers the moment he faced the same choice. He's afraid Q will choose to die without trying to live, wishes he could beg the man to choose life and service to the King, but he can't. It's the loneliest moment Q will ever know, but Bond hopes the younger man knows that even now, he's not alone. Not really.

A jerky nod from Q has Bond releasing his breath in one gusty whoosh. The Great King nods once, then turns to Bond.

"The goblet of wine," he says, pointing to the table near the entry. 

Bond is shocked to find he didn't even see the man leave it there on his way in. He covers the floor in three large steps, scooping up the goblet and the knife sitting beside it on the table. He returns to the King, who simply holds out his hand, palm up, waiting, never taking his eyes off Q.

Bond knows what he needs to do, and with very little fanfare, he runs the knife along the King's palm, slicing into flesh and bringing blood to the surface. He drops the knife and holds the goblet under the King's hand as he turns it sideways to allow the blood to drip into the goblet, mixing with the wine.

Bond reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, pressing it into the King's hand for a moment to stop the bleeding. When he pulls it away, it's as though he was never wounded, which still brings a small thrill to Bond, no matter how many times he's seen The Ritual.

He hands the King the goblet as he retakes his position behind the King's shoulder. The King looks down at Q, who's been watching them the entire time. He smiles gently as he moves his hand from Q's cheek to the back of his neck, holding him up as he presses the goblet to Q's lips.

"Drink," the King says. "All of it."

Q practically gulps down the contents, as if he's afraid that if he takes too long he'll be dead before the blood can do its work. He's probably not wrong to think that, but Bond only watches intently as the blood and wine mixture flow down his throat.

When the goblet is empty, the King sets it on the floor and takes both of Q's cheeks into his hands. "Tonight, as the sun sets the old shall pass away, and you shall be reborn, as each day is reborn with the dawn."

Bond recognizes the old words, remembers them from his own Making. He tenses, waiting for something to happen. He's never seen a Ritual done this way, so he has no idea what to expect. Sig was the last Eternal Warrior he's known of to be offered this without undergoing the entire Ritual, but Bond wasn't there to see it. So he's surprised—and very worried—when Q does nothing but slump back into the sofa and close his eyes.

Bond lurches forward as the King leans back, pressing two fingers to his neck. Q's pulse beats under his fingers, weak and erratic but still there. Bond can't help it, he slumps to his knees at the relief coursing through him. This is by no means the end, and a long night is still ahead, but he's hopeful now when he was nothing but fearful a few minutes ago.

"Your friend is strong," the King says quietly. "He will do well, I have no doubt."

Bond turns to the King, taking the hand that had been bloody only a few minutes ago, pressing his forehead to the back in a gesture of gratitude and benediction. The King lays his hand on Bond's head, stroking gently, offering comfort.

~o~

The hours pass slowly for Bond, as afternoon bleeds into evening and eventually night. Sig had come in, not long after The Ritual was completed, checking Q's vitals and tutting over Bond's wrecked emotional state. In addition to being the best driver they've got, Sig is also a doctor, so when he pronounces Q weak but rallying, Bond breathes a sigh of relief. It doesn't mean he'll survive, but it's the best sign they could have hoped for.

Sometime later, Oliver returns with an open bottle of wine and two fresh glasses, along with a plate of antipasti, and sits with Bond and the King until they've both eaten something. Bond smiles his gratitude, but can't seem to dredge up the energy to form words. Thankfully, Oliver doesn't push, simply smiles in return and clears out the remains of their meal, including the glass and knife they used in The Ritual.

It grows later still, the moon rising to shine in through the windows along the front of the villa. Bond hasn't left Q's side, won't leave if he's given a choice, until dawn, when they know that Q has survived. He refuses to accept any other outcome.

"It was much the same, the night of your Making," the King rumbles into the silence sometime after midnight.

"What was?" Bond asks absently, his eyes never leaving Q where he's still stretched out on the sofa.

"I could not pry Oliver away from your side all night long," the King says. Bond darts his glance over and finds the man watching him with affection dancing in his eyes. "No matter how many times I assured him that you would survive the night, he would not leave, even to find his own rest. So I suppose telling you that Q will see the sun rise will do no good."

"How do you know?" Bond asks, leaning forward, meeting the intense stare of the man before him. "How do you know he'll survive? How did you know I would?"

The King stands, stretching his back. He's long since shed his coat and tie, but he looks no more approachable now than he's ever looked before. And yet Bond can't help but feel an affinity with the man, a sense of belonging that has been with him all these many years, since that first dawn when he'd woken to find himself a Paladin of the Great King.

He watches as the King crosses the room and pours two glasses of water. He returns to the sofa, handing one to Bond and then resting his free hand on Bond's shoulder, squeezing gently. Bond looks up, finding a contemplative look on the King's face.

"I have always known who among men has the ability to become what we are," he says quietly. "I chose my Paladin's carefully; only those men of good character, brave and true. I knew they would never leave me by choice, and I have never been wrong."

"But haven't there been men who've failed to survive The Ritual?" Bond asks.

"Yes," the King says with a quick nod. "There have been those who were not worthy of the gift I bestowed upon them. I knew they would not survive."

"But you didn't tell them?"

"It is not for me to make that choice for them," the King says. "They must come to me of their own free will, knowing they may not survive. I will grant them life and purpose if they choose me, but not all are capable of bearing this burden."

"And Q is?"

"Yes, your Q is indeed. I will be proud to call him My Own." The King says. He pauses, tilting his head, a clear question in his eyes. "Why do you address him as 'Q' and not by his name?"

Bond chuckles. "Q is short for Quartermaster. He creates and maintains all the technology we use, and interfaces via comms when we need further assistance. He's quite the wonder; even more talented than his predecessor, actually. But calling him Quentin Weatherby might just get you your gun exploding in your face, or a comms signal that only feeds you the weather in Denmark. _No one_ wants that."

"Your agency certainly does like its acronyms," the King says, shaking his head. "Olivia spoke often of being 'M'."

Bond sucks in a deep breath; the loss of Herself is still so fresh, doubly painful because she was one of them, a Paladin of age and wisdom. Bond leans back in his chair, resting his head on the backrest. His eyes drift closed, though he's not sure he could sleep if he tried. He's too worried, even after the King's assurances.

"I miss her too, old friend," the King says quietly. Bond feels the King's hand as it rests on his shoulder. "Rest. Quentin will need your strength in the coming days."

~o~

Bond wakes in the morning, his head pounding from lack of sleep and the bright slice of sun piercing through the drapes. He practically tumbles out of the chair in his haste to check Q for a pulse. His fingers press to the younger man's neck, and for precious seconds he can't feel a thing. But then he feels it: the flutter of a beating heart, weak but steady.

It's all the proof he needs that his friend has survived the Ritual.

He tumbles back, falling into his chair gracelessly as he watches Q breathe. He's still deathly pale, and probably weak as a kitten after he'd lost so much blood, but he's alive, and that's all Bond can really ask for in the end.

Long minutes pass, and Bond is just about to nod off again when a groan from the couch reaches his ears. He gets up, kneeling beside the sofa as Q begins to stir.

"Bloody hell," he moans. His hands flop uselessly at his side, too weak to even raise them to rub at his face. "Did you kill them all? Please tell me you killed them all. I'd like to think someone feels worse than I do at the moment."

Bond chuckles. "They're all dead, I promise you, though I had very little to do with it."

Q squints his eyes open, frowning as he glances around the room. "This isn't Medical."

"No, it's not," Bond says. He stands up and pulls his chair closer, settling in and propping his elbows on his knees. "How much do you remember?"

"I remember being shot," Q says. "Fuck, that hurt. I didn't expect it to hurt that much."

"What else?" Bond says, quirking a smile.

"I remember the alley," Q says, "and someone stepping in our way. You seemed to know them."

"Oliver," Bond says, nodding, "and Samson and Girard. They went after the shooters. Anything else?"

"It's all rather a blur after that," Q says. His arms seem to have finally started working, because he's able to raise his hand to rub at his eyes. He pulls his hand away and stares at it for a moment before his eyes shift to Bond. "I can see you perfectly. Why can I see you perfectly?"

"That big blur you can't seem to sort out?" Q nods, so Bond continues. "You've been through the Ritual and come out the other side."

"I—don't remember it at all," Q says. There's no panic in his voice; it's more like curiosity, like a switch he's trying to flip to fill the room with light, but all he gets is more darkness. "Well, not strictly true. I remember… blue eyes. Deep blue, like the sea."

Bond smiles, nodding his head gently. "That would be the King. He offered you his blood and you accepted. He stayed with you all night, watched as you fought to stay alive."

Bond's mind automatically conjures up an image of the King as he'd last seen him, and he's startled to find that he can remember everything about the man, from his salt-and-pepper hair to the fine cut of his suit. He's never been able to do that before, but he knows that those closest to the Great King can. He's not sure what it means, but makes a note to track down Oliver to ask him later.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Q says quietly, bringing Bond's attention back to the present and more immediate issues.

"Well, for now, rest and recuperation is the order of the day," Bond says. 

He reaches out and helps Q to sit up, shifting over to sit beside him on the couch when it appears he's about to fall over. He slings an arm around the younger man, pulling Q in and letting him lean on Bond for however long he needs.

"Obviously," Q says, waving a hand, "I'm not going anywhere any time soon, if the fact that I need help sitting up is any indication. I mean, what am I supposed to do now that I'm a Paladin? I'm not combat trained, and I didn't even fight anyone for the privilege. What does he hope to gain from me by giving me this opportunity?"

"He chose to share this gift with you because he knew you were up to the challenge," Bond says quietly. "You aren't the first to be offered the Ritual without defeating one of us in single combat. The King chooses whom he chooses, for whatever purpose he chooses. It's not for us to question why. He has seen in you the heart of a warrior, and your purpose will be that which he gives you, when you're ready. Until then, perhaps some food and rest."

"And tea," Q says, and Bond chuckles. "Lots and lots of tea, 007."

"And tea," Bond agrees. "But first, I think a shower. You're still covered in blood; all your own, I might add."

Q cringes. "I didn't need to know that."

"Would you rather some of it had been mine?"

"No, I'd rather no blood had been spilled at all," Q says, rather sharply. He takes a deep breath. "But I'm glad you weren't hurt trying to protect me."

"It'll take a lot more than a few stray bullets to do me in," Bond says reassuringly. "You, too, now that you're a Paladin."

"Will it help me stay up all night when I need to monitor your missions?"

"No, I don't think it works that way," Bond says, trying and nearly failing to suppress a chuckle.

"Of course not," Q says. He sighs, tipping his head back. "I don't suppose you have anything stronger than tea in this place? Some scotch, perhaps?"

"I'm sure there's something around here," Bond says, "but given that you were only recently shot, and lost a great deal of blood, I'm not inclined to replace it with alcohol. Perhaps when you've recovered, we can raise a glass to—"

"Surviving," Q says, glancing at Bond. "To surviving."

"To surviving," Bond says in agreement. "Now, what say we get you showered and fed. Then you can have a kip and we'll talk about what's next, after that."

"As good a plan as any," Q says. He pauses, glancing at Bond before he takes a deep breath. "Thank you. For saving me."

"I had very little to do with it, Q," Bond says gently. "But for whatever part I did play, you're welcome."

Q simply nods, then struggles to gain his feet. Bond pulls an arm over his shoulder and begins the long walk to the stairs. He's not sure if the King is even still in the villa, but he resolves to find the man, wherever he is, and thank him.

For both of them.

~Finis

**Author's Note:**

> I've cast Jeremy Irons as the King. [Click here](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000460/mediaviewer/rm1109776384) to see the picture that inspired the character.


End file.
